HD 'Time, Turning'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; Hogwarts-era. Harry has shed his Gryffindor skin; Draco isn't sure how he feels about that development. Um, not fluffy.


**HD 'Time, Turning'**

**Author: ** **tigersilver  
Pairing: H/D  
Rating: NC-17  
Word Count: 1,600  
Summary/Warnings: None, other than mentions of shagging.**

His cock is still wet with the sloppy remnants of them both when Draco's back stiffens.

Harry breathes easy and slow; he's learned to do that, from Hermione. _Coping technique_, she calls it; _a way not pass out_, Harry calls it.

It's a slow process, how Draco Malfoy gathers himself up. Harry's learned to watch for it, no matter the light level. He can do it in the full dark, just by fingertips and concentrated listening. Has the advantage at the moment, if one could call it that—it's late in the afternoon and the descending sun sets Malfoy's hair afire, calling up that hated ginger flame by glint of association. Can't miss the aureole of white-gold that is its primary cauldron, though.

Can't mistake a Malfoy, no.

Harry's blindsided still, as always. That hair—that skin—the fleeting flash of those eyes. It's far too bright, despite the dim murk.

He blinks and knows he's still hoping, as always—and Malfoy will still do as he wishes...as always. Shag and flee, the first few times, in a state of shocked silence, with bright red cheeks and wide eyes. Shag and stalk off, for a solid month after that, with grey eyes narrowed cruelly and an arrogant cock to his shoulders Harry could almost despise.

Almost, but not quite. He knows arrogance is Malfoy's way of coping, as his is…well, he's a few tried and true methods he switches out. Silence, for one, and dutifully biding his time, for another; the last learned with a bitter lesson but both techniques consciously measured. No more would he rush in and be _Gryffindor_, flailing all over the environment and breaking things that were precious in passing. No…he'd learned to wait. Like a Slytherin, carefully.

Quietly.

These days, Malfoy also maintains a careful, brittle quiet. Oh, he'll talk with Harry; exchange commonplaces and agree easily enough to the times and locations Harry will suggest for their next several meetings. He'll even converse, should they come across one another in the Library or be partnered up in Potions, Herbology or Astronomy. They're never been partnered in DADA or History; Dawlish teaches DADA and he's not willing to place two such previously volatile students together and Binns never offers activities—he only just lectures. Endlessly.

McGonagall, though. She'll give Harry what he wants, whether she's aware she's doing so or not. He sits regularly next to Malfoy in Transfigurations now and that's what began…this.

This waiting. Right this moment, the waiting has crawled to nearly a full halt, subjectively. Harry can feel Malfoy's cock twitch restlessly beneath his casual hand; feel, too, his abdominal muscles gathering, flexing. _He's about to go_, Harry thinks, and resists the urge to grip and to burrow. His nose is poked into Malfoy's nape, and he'd like to keep it there, as he likes the scent of salted skin and spunk. The scent of Draco. Draco's the one in bed with him; Malfoy's the one in their classes. Harry's well aware of the difference.

When it happens, it's as quick as an AK, and while Harry knows it's happening, there's nothing he can do to stop it.

"Well," Malfoy says, sitting up abruptly to yank on his shorts and trousers. "What's on your mind, Potter? Later, again, or...what? Tomorrow?"

"…Later," Harry groans, and rolls over on his stomach. His fingers are already lonely; he's missing bits, important ones. Malfoy's rummaging for his socks, his shirt, robes and bag and miscellany: Harry can hear him, but he won't look. Can't. He'd not got his spectacles on and Malfoy's not exactly begging to gaze deep into Harry's expressive green eyes. "I think. Yeah, later's'alrigh', s'pose," he mumbles, deliberately slurring his reply into the Transfigured pillow.

His face is well hidden—a good thing, that—though it's difficult to breathe cleanly through the lingering must of what had been a long-discarded armchair. He's fairly certain he only sounds maybe a bit weary, or perhaps still blissed out, but nothing else, and that's perfectly understandable, given what they'd just done.

But…there was nothing else hinted which might give his precious secret away; not in _those_ words. Not in his relaxed, post-coital sprawl, either.

"After curfew, then, I'd say; usual time, usual place—alright, Potter?" Malfoy's reply is light, perfectly balanced between 'meaningless' and 'empty', but agreeable. Harry moves his head, vouchsafing nothing more than simple agreement and there's another of those brittle pauses. "Er, then—see you 'round, Potter," Draco starts up again, rising, and Harry feels the mattress springing back from where Malfoy's weight had depressed it. "Have a pleasant dinner."

The door snicks shut, and there's silence, unless one counts the dust motes falling. Harry has, once or twice, until he yanked himself up by the short hairs and got himself over it. That was a fucking useless exercise and he knows better, now, than to waste his time. Besides…

Malfoy gives himself away, Harry figures, whether he realizes it or not—in every single interaction between them. He comes when Harry wants him to; he never refuses. Never opens that firmly cut mouth of his and lets slip that dreaded 'N' word, either, no matter what manner of…interaction Harry suggests. Been that way since the very beginning and Harry doesn't see it changing, whichever odd angle he squints at it.

Malfoy's constant, as far as the longevity of his emotions; he just doesn't care to discuss them. Not at all; perhaps he's not sure how to go about it. Harry, having learned to_ listen_ to silence and decipher clearly what's _not_ being said to him—or shouted, in Draco's case—is okay with that.

He _can_ wait. He's got time.

**0o0**

In the hallway, Draco allows himself to slump slightly in relief. Only for a moment, and just up against the wall.

He's made it away again, unscathed, unquestioned, and that surely counts as some sort of victory. Pyrrhic, he fears, as it's more and more difficult to accomplish retreat; he's only so much time before he'll be forced to say something. He's losing, even as he wins.

He thinks…maybe.

He's not entirely sure, precisely, what that should be—the words for Harry. Those words he must first formulate, then practise and deliver. They'll matriculate in three months, and Easter hols are 'round the corner. Potter's not said a word about either; the close-mouthed git seems content with the way they are now, and exhibits not the slightest longing for anything…more. _Other_.

Draco wants more—he's certain of that, if nothing else—but he's not at all certain how to go about obtaining it. Sex is sex, shags are shags, and that's a subject he's very clear on. Potter is a subject area that boggles him. Further, he's under the impression Potter knows Draco's at sea and is actively enjoying the view, the wanker. That infuriates Draco to no end, but he won't stoop to mentioning it. He won't allow himself to ask questions, either, no matter how much it pains him. Questions of any sort lead inevitably to discussions, which in turn translate to messy confrontations and other people barging into what's none of their collective beeswax and bashing about—none of these are features Draco could use in his life.

But he'd really appreciate it if the intermittent chest pain would cease. He's suffering from it, nearly daily now, and though it eases up when he's with Potter, it never quite recedes. It's usually accompanied by pressure—unbearably tight—in his sinus cavity and the eerie sensation of weightless falling. He's not got vertigo—couldn't very well fly a broom if he did—but he's now clear on exactly what that feels like.

Not pleasant, no.

The worst by far is the actual act of leaving Potter—Harry. It was easier in the beginning, though he'd no clue then that it was. Haul up knickers and bolt for it; wank furiously later, to memory. But then it hit him—Harry never said a bleeding word about it. Not to request he stay, or to tell him to bugger off, or...or _anything_. There were no signposts in this new Potter territory. Draco was flying blind.

It's…slightly exciting. Exhilarating, even. Because Harry's not someone who screws people over. No, he's bona fide, and Draco's certain enough of that, if little else. So…those hands (when they rest so casually upon his stomach and hip, after), they're speaking to him. He can almost hear them—he only has to be still enough to listen.

And Harry's heart rate—he can't disguise that, and it's rapid long after he should've recovered from the pleasurable stress known as shagging. Draco can feel it, if he concentrates and remains quiet; it enters his bloodstream and matches his own, rushing in tandem.

And the bloody silence, over which he'd cycled though a whole slew of emotions (anger, denial, bargaining, grief…acceptance; the Muggle Mental Health texts were in the Restricted Section, next to Muggle Mechanics—he'd tripped over them quite by accident and then devoured them all, cover to cover, in a fruitless effort to understand Harry). That silence of Harry's was a dead giveaway, the very key to Harry Potter.

He'd have to tackle it soon, Draco knew. Find his way through it…but not today, and not tonight.

Harry wasn't going anywhere (Draco could still feel his ejaculate, dampening his shorts as it seeped out), not soon, at least, and…neither was Draco.

There was time, enough, _now_. Of that, at least, he was also certain.


End file.
